


Dread Pirate Buttercup

by Feeling_Super_Super_Super



Category: The Princess Bride - William Goldman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, and buttercup actually does stuff, but for now westley's just rescuing her, but there is a fight scene so you know, by the way the depictions of violence aren't that graphic, fezzik does come back properly later i promise!, i just wanted to get away from canon as quickly as possible, she becomes dread pirate roberts later, westley is a Tired Gay and doesn't give a shit any more
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:47:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22258948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feeling_Super_Super_Super/pseuds/Feeling_Super_Super_Super
Summary: How Buttercup's character arc should have gone and also the only valid ship apart from Miracle Max/Valerie
Relationships: Inigo Montoya/Westley
Comments: 9
Kudos: 39





	1. I Can Fence With Both Hands, If You Get My Drift

**Author's Note:**

> Second fic, this time a vastly different fandom, but please enjoy regardless!  
> I think I'm gonna set my schedule to posting every Friday but I had this one stored up for a while so I thought I'd post it now and add the second chapter at the end of this week.  
> Credit to Neville Say Never on tumblr for the idea!

“You seem a decent fellow,” Inigo said, with a bow. “I hate to kill you.”

“You seem a decent fellow,” replied the man in black.” “I hate to die.”

The Spaniard nodded and said, “Begin.” He took his first swing, unsurprised when he was met with a parry. Finally, he thought, a worthy opponent.

They moved back and forth along the cliffside, thrusting and parrying, neither gaining the upper hand for very long before the other one, displaying some or other fancy skill or elaborate trick, would knock his blade down and level the playing field. All the while, they traded witty remarks and exchanged commentary on each other’s technique, speculating on how the other would win and which skill would work to counter him. Inigo forced his adversary up a boulder and then gave a throaty laugh as he jumped gracefully down, flipping off of the rock himself and turning to face him.

As the man in black drove him towards the edge of the cliff and Inigo began to climb up the broken steps of the wall, between blows, he said, “I admit it, you are better than I am.”

Without pausing, the man asked, “Then why are you smiling?”

“Because I know something you don’t know.”

“And what is that?”

“I am not left-handed.” He slid his sword into his right hand and thrust forward, knocking the masked man off-guard for a moment and allowing him to drive him up the rocks.

“Forgive me if I’m wrong, but was that an innuendo?” the man in black asked, a curious expression on his face.

“I do not know what you mean.”

The masked man smirked as he continued to move backwards. “I thought perhaps you were flirting with me.”

The Spaniard smiled back. “Is this what you think flirting looks like?”

“Well, people don’t normally live long enough for me to find out.”

Inigo pushed the man in black against a low section of the wall, trying to drive him off the edge. A loose stone fell into the abyss.

“There’s something I ought to tell you,” the man groaned, Inigo’s arm pressing into his stomach.

“Tell me.”

“I’m not left-handed either.” He pushed Inigo away and threw his sword into the air, catching it in his right hand with a flourish.

“Now it seems like you’re flirting with me,” the Spaniard said with a throaty laugh. He thrust his sword towards the man in black, who caught it with ease and turned his own blade around it, flicking it up so that it flew across the plateau and lodged in the ground. Inigo leaped off of the rocks and swung off a bar onto the ground below, stumbling forward and grabbing his sword. He turned around and looked up at his opponent, shock on his face. The masked man spun his sword through the air, landing just in front of Inigo’s feet, and followed Inigo in jumping down, swinging once round and jumping off. He landed, kicking up dirt, and picked up his sword, bringing it to his front and taking a bow.

“Perhaps I am,” he said.

“Who are you?” Inigo asked, fascination overcoming him.

“No one of consequence.”

Inigo scoffed. “I must know.”

“Get used to disappointment.”

They danced across the plateau once more, trading thrusts and parries. Inigo ran backwards to avoid a swing, and the man in black chased him, leaping onto a boulder and knocking Inigo’s sword into the air. Inigo cartwheeled over the boulder behind him and darted to catch it. Moving backwards, he continued to swing at the masked man, and parry his thrusts in return, until he was backed into a corner. In desperation, Inigo swung downwards past his opponent, who didn’t flinch. He took a moment to wipe the sweat gathering on his brow, but the man in black seized the opportunity of his distraction and twirled his sword around Inigo’s head, using its tip to draw a line down each of his cheeks, tracing his scars and drawing spots of blood, and slammed Inigo’s blade onto the floor. He pushed Inigo against the wall and gently lifted his chin with his own.

“Kill me quickly,” the Spaniard begged, breathing heavily.

“I would as soon destroy a stained glass window as an artist like yourself.” The man in black pulled Inigo into a rough kiss, snaking his tongue between Inigo’s lips and relishing in the heat rising in their cheeks until Inigo forced him away, gasping for air. “And you’re an astonishingly good kisser.” Discreetly slipping a thrice-folded piece of paper into the Spaniard’s pocket, he turned on his heel and began to sprint away to follow Vizzini, slowing only to pick up his discarded sword.

Inigo, who had been losing his grip on the wall, collapsed into the sand, where he lay until shortly before Prince Humperdinck arrived at the scene, by which time he had awoken and, after a confused scan of the paper left for him and a moment of hesitation in which he glanced behind and in front of him, decided to follow the elusive man in black to reconvene with his employer.

After a brief altercation with the giant Fezzik, whom he knocked out quickly, bidding him a good rest and dreams of large women, the man in black approached the rock upon which Vizzini had prepared two glasses of wine and was holding Buttercup hostage with a blindfold over her eyes and a sword pressed against her neck. “If you wish her dead, by all means, keep moving forward,” Vizzini called out.

“Don’t you want to know who I am?” the man in black responded smugly. He took a step towards them. Vizzini shot him a look of displeasure and pushed the blade closer to the princess’s face. “I don’t need to know who you are. All I need to know is that you’re trying to kidnap what I’ve rightfully stolen.”

“Well,” the man in black told the Sicilian, becoming impatient, “We are at an impasse.” He took another step forward, and, when Vizzini didn’t kill his hostage, kept moving forward until he was close enough to reach out and snatch the sword from his hand.

Ignoring Vizzini’s indignant squawks, the man in black reached out and snatched the sword from his hand.

“I have a lot to do today, so do you badly want to do the battle of wits or shall I just kill you now?” he asked Vizzini, who at this point in his evaluation of events had moved past the stage of shock and was entering rather quickly into terror. Unnoticed by both, Buttercup tore her blindfold off her face and sat by the boulder, sipping at a glass of wine.

“The battle of wits?” Vizzini replied meekly.

The man in black rolled his eyes. “I have some iocane powder that I was going to pour into one of the wine glasses behind your back and we’d each drink one… well, you can see where it would be going. Does it especially matter to you how you die, or can I finish you off quickly and be on my way?”

“Seems unprofessional of you,” Buttercup remarked, not looking at either of the two men. “Especially from the Dread Pirate Roberts himself,” she added haughtily. “You ought to hope I don’t spread any rumours about you going soft when you let me free.” She smirked as Roberts turned around.

“Ma’am,” he replied, holding her gaze, “For the last half of a decade, I have had less time to sleep than you spend bathing. I have consisted on coffee for the best part of a year, and as soon as I rescue you – for which, by the way, you hardly seem grateful – I plan on retiring on the spot and napping until the end of the century. So pardon me if I try to hurry things up a little bit. Alright?”

Buttercup laughed and waved a hand. “This wine is delicious though, I really think you two are missing out.”

The Dread Pirate Roberts tutted and nodded towards Vizzini, who had retreated a few steps. “Time’s up,” he said, and flung the Sicilian’s sword at him, hitting him in the heart and killing him instantly. “If you want to take that, feel free,” he remarked to Buttercup, and poured himself a glass of wine.


	2. I Say To You Adios

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buttercup and Westley escape and Westley reveals his identity to Buttercup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, chapter two. Buttercup starts her training next chapter, which won't be next week but in two or three, depending on whether I decide to write a chapter of this or the Beetlejuice fic next

“It’s a pity you didn’t do the battle of wits, really. He was practising a victory speech and some of it was rather good,” Buttercup told Roberts. “There was a great line about the classic blunders that I was quite excited for.”

“Never get involved in a land war in Asia?” he asked with a sigh.

“Yes, that was one of them, and – what am I doing? I shouldn’t be talking to you, I should be trying to escape. How do I escape?”

He set his cup down and gestured around him. “You don’t,” he replied, “you have nowhere to go, no way to leave, and no one to rescue you. Now, sit down and let’s have tea.”

“That’s not true! There is no greater hunter than Prince Humperdinck, he’ll find you.”

Roberts tensed, putting up his hand to silence Buttercup, and strode over to the boulder where he had left his sword. He walked up behind Buttercup and hissed, “We’ve got company. Take as much food and wine as you can carry and let’s get out of here.”

“But—”

He tossed a sack of bread over his shoulder and shoved her towards the table. “Come on!”

Humperdinck kneeled next to the bloodied corpse of Vizzini. He picked up the discarded vial and sniffed it. “Iocane. I’m sure of it.”

Count Rugen looked dispassionately at the body. “You think that’s what killed him?”

Humperdinck scoffed, “Of course not, he died of the bleeding. The real question is, if he wasn’t poisoned, then what was the iocane used for?”

Rugen looked up at the prince, then back down at the body, then pinched the bridge of his nose and struggled to come up with an appropriate response. Failing that, he stood quietly and wondered what he was doing with his life. “Your highness, perhaps we should go after Princess Buttercup. There are footsteps heading east.”

Humperdinck nodded to his men and brought his horse into a trot, directing the party in the direction of the footprints.

Roberts let go of Buttercup and thrust her onto the nearest rock, balancing on the edge of a plateau with a steep fall down a rocky hill positioned menacingly behind it. He took a step back and sat cross-legged on the grass opposite. “Why so quiet, m’lady?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Don’t call me that.”

He tutted. “Of course, m’lady. I wouldn’t want to offend you. Regardless, I need an answer. Can’t have a dissatisfied captive, can we?” He threw a goblet of wine in her direction. “Catch,” he deadpanned.

“You killed my only love, Roberts. And for that I shall never forgive you.” She caught the goblet deftly and stood up.

“Perhaps. I kill a lot of people. I thought Humperdinck was your love, though? Aren’t you two getting married, m’lady? And you really ought to drink some wine, you won’t get another chance to have a drink.”

She stuck her tongue out and poured her goblet onto the floor, placing it on the rock next to hers. Without missing a beat, Roberts tossed her another goblet, once again full to the brim. “Bon appetit.”

She sighed and poured it on the grass, dropping the goblet in the puddle. “I don’t love him, it’s an arranged marriage. I assumed you could tell?”

“Of course I know he doesn’t love you, but I didn’t realise the feeling was reciprocal.” He threw another goblet at her. “I assume you know he hired Vizzini to kill you.”

“What?” she asked, dropping the goblet in shock. “I knew no such thing. How do you know that?”

“Because he hired me to stop them. He’s a very busy man, you know.” He drew two goblets out at once and fumbled with one while he threw the other at Buttercup. “I was doing the calculations on the way up the cliff and it’s actually a very clever economic strategy. He knew the winner would take the other’s payment as forfeit and that we both knew that, and so he could drive down the prices, on account of his only really having to pay one of us. It also looks better on a tax record, and if he was really lucky we’d both kill the other and he wouldn’t have to pay a penny. Of course it was inevitable that you’d die, which was terribly convenient for him.”

“Well,” Buttercup said triumphantly, tossing the goblet back towards him and catching the second one, “He didn’t count on one thing.”

“And what is that, m’lady?” Roberts decided to continue the game of catch Buttercup had started.

“I’m going to escape and you’re going to let me.”

He laughed, drew his sword and threw it towards her, missing her head by an inch. “Good luck! Anyway, you said I killed your love. We’ve established that it’s not the prince, so who is it? Another Prince, like Humperdinck, ugly, rich, and scabby? Or –” he jogged to where the sword had landed, picked it up and pointed it at her gleefully, “— is it a girl?”

Buttercup gasped and drew herself upright. “A girl? I don’t know quite what you’re suggesting.”

“Then you’re not as clever as I’d given you credit for. So what’s her name?”

Buttercup lobbed a cub at his head, missing by a wide margin. “ _Her_ name is Westley,” she spat, emphasising the pronoun with a hiss, “a farm boy. He left to seek his fortune after I rejected him. His ship was attacked by yours and he was killed, along with everyone on board, so you may kindly stop mocking my pain, sir.”

Roberts laughed, spread his hands wide and replied, “Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something. And if your precious farm boy is who I think he is, then I most certainly didn’t kill him any more than you, or that pretty Spanish gentleman.”

“You mean Inigo?” Buttercup asked. “You didn’t kill him?”

“God, no. Have you never seen him fight? It’s artwork. And that sword – from the way he handles it, he must have had it twenty years, at least. He said his father made it, and it’s the finest craftsmanship I’ve ever had the honour of witnessing. I couldn’t kill him even if I had disliked him.”

She looked curiously at him again. “You don’t dislike him even after he tried to kill you?”

“My dear, if I disliked everyone who ever tried to kill me I wouldn’t be able to stand anyone I ever met. It’s much quicker to base my opinion of people on appearance – which I suppose is why you get on my nerves so much.”

Letting out an offended snort, Buttercup retorted, “You can hardly talk – why cover your face with a mask if not for some physical deformity?”

“You know,” came the immediate reply from Roberts, stroking his mask as though it were a beard, “the giant asked the very same question as I was strangling him.”

“Well?”

“Well, might I not just as easily ask you why you like to wear those frilly hats? Does your scalp suffer from pox, or does your hair fall out?”

“No,” she said indignantly. “They’re comfortable and stylish, and complement my clothes.”

The Dread Pirate Roberts spread his arms wide. “Then there’s your answer. We both have reputations to uphold – yours a well-to-do fiancée of a prince, and mine a fearsome pirate who can’t afford to be recognised as some peasant boy working on a farm in Florin. You require elegance, I require secrecy, and we both can appreciate the benefit of a little comfort. Thus your hat, and my mask.”

“Wait! a peasant boy on a farm – you can’t possibly mean my Westley?” Buttercup covered her hand over her mouth and continued in a muffled voice, “You’re not – are you? Please, sir, remove your mask. Either you or Humperdinck are going to kill me in any case, so surely it oughtn’t matter.”

Roberts laughed and took a step back, so that his back was to the edge of the plateau. “Promise you won’t tell? I’ve worked ever so hard to earn this title and I would hate to see it go to waste from one little tattletale.”

Buttercup nodded eagerly and Roberts lifted his mask over his head. “As you wish.”

As soon as she saw that he was indeed her long-lost love, she ran to his side and slapped him across the face with as much force as she could muster.

“Ow!” he cried in belated shock.

“How dare you make me think you were dead for five years? You could have written to me, or sent a spy to the palace, or _something_! I have spent five years in the greatest pain of my life, and you couldn’t let me know you were alive? I died the day I received that news – and you can die too for all I care!”

Westley sighed. “Oh, thank god, I was worried you’d still be in love with me.”

Buttercup froze. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I didn’t want to let you pine after me when I’d moved on from you. It would be cruel – besides, as far as I knew, you were in love with the Prince,” Westley said slowly, willing her not to be angry. “But it’s alright, because evidently you have not unduly held on to hope of our reconciliation, so it worked out fine for all of us in the end.” He took a step backwards, so that moving any further would ensure that he fell.

“Anyway – I’ve made sure you weren’t going to waste away in celibacy waiting for me, I’ve dealt with that idiotic Sicilian and made plans for the next Dread Pirate Robert, and your Humperdinck seems to be approaching with an entourage, so it seems to me I’ve nothing left to do here. In the spirit of the only person I’ve met today whom I liked, I say to you adios.” And, raising his hand above his head in salute and lowering his mask, Westley fell, arms outstretched, down the hill.

Buttercup squinted and realised she could indeed see the dust cloud of Humperdinck’s horses in the distance, coming over the horizon. Anxiously looking at her lover tumbling onto the rocks below, she shouted, “I want you to teach me!” and, instinctively clenching her hands to her sides and rolling into a ball, fell after him.

Humperdinck and Count Rugen slowed their horses to a stop as they reached the summit of the hill, the rest of the search party following close behind.

“Disappeared,” Humperdinck declared to his company with disappointment. “He must have seen us closing in, which might account for his panicking in error. Unless I'm wrong, and I am never wrong, they are headed dead into the fire swamp.”

Count Rugen flexed his fingers around the hilt of his blade, and replied, “What are you going to do?”

“If they survive – which, of course, they certainly won’t – I’ll have sent a party to meet them on the other side and bring Buttercup back to me. Naturally, it’s a shame I won’t get my war yet, but I think perhaps it will better invigorate my men to see their queen killed on their wedding night – perhaps, by the famous Dread Pirate Roberts in the pay of the Guilderian court, don’t you agree?”

Rugen and the other courtiers nodded hurriedly.

“Wonderful. In fact,” he added offhand, “I am told by my cartographers that the swamp is easier to access on the bay side, so I think we ought to go over there regardless, in case I decide to send someone in to collect Buttercup’s body.”

Buttercup landed, exhausted and battered, on her back at the foot of the hill. Westley had chosen a markedly less rocky section of the hill to fall down, and was sufficiently recovered from his descent that he was resting, hands above his head, on a withered tree-stump.

“You want me to _teach_ you?” he asked of her when he saw that she had caught her breath. “Teach you what?”

Buttercup jumped to her feet and said, mustering to her voice all the strength and firmness that she had left, “I want to be the next Dread Pirate Roberts. But I don’t know how to fight, so you’ll have to teach me.”

“The next Dread Pirate Roberts? Whatever do you mean? My name is Westley Roberts, I am a pirate and I am dreaded – ergo, I am the Dread Pirate Roberts, and so unless you plan to become my clone or my sister, I cannot help you.”

“That’s false – because the Dread Pirate Roberts has been marauding since I was a child, and you only left me five years ago. And your name is not Roberts, my father hired you from an illiterate family from the village, and you had no surname. In addition to all of which, I heard from the Chief Enforcer when he was talking to the Prince that Roberts had been spotted without his mask, and the witness didn’t agree with any previous sightings about his appearance. The last witness saw brown hair and hazel eyes, while this one saw blonde and sky blue. Thus, you must have inherited the title somehow. You said you wanted to retire, so I see no reason why I might not inherit it from you. Any flaws in my logic?”

Westley nodded thoughtfully. “Well, I cannot argue with that. I’ll teach you. Your first lesson, then, is to lead us through the fire swamp.”

“The fire swamp?” Buttercup responded with a start.

“Well yes, that is where we landed. Hadn’t you noticed?”

“We’ll never survive,” she said.

“Nonsense,” he replied jovially. “You’re only saying that because nobody ever has.”


End file.
